


Something About Him

by AvaRose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, John's Reichenbach Feels, Not Really Character Death, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach-Related, The Reichenbach Fall Spoilers, sherlock is human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3347210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRose/pseuds/AvaRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was something about him that drew John Watson to the strange, stoic and incredibly sharp man wearing that billowing black coat and the ridiculous hat that became his trademark."</p><p>John reflects on his life with Sherlock after the Reichenbach Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something About Him

 

   There was something about him that drew John Watson to the strange, stoic and incredibly sharp man wearing that billowing black coat and the ridiculous hat that became his trademark. It started all at a peculiar encounter with this genius who barely graced him a glance, but was able to recite part of his life as easily as breathing. Then, next thing he knew, he was settling down in a new flat adorned with a skull on the mantelpiece and a head in a fridge. He didn’t even have time to get used to this new environment that his new roommate was sauntering to solve a crime involving a pink lady, a good and a bad bottle and a cabbie who had nothing to lose. Yet he did lose something that day, and that something was life by John’s own hand. And John lost something that day too: he lost the nightmares, the limp afflicting his leg, the anguish plaguing his mind during daylight and the routine he hadn’t even known he had. He fully embraced the new life he found with the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

   Sherlock Holmes was a man hard to grasp. His mind was like a machine composed of a billion of gears and thousands of cogs, all working together in perfect harmony. Everything that was considered important was thoroughly scrutinised before being classified in his mind palace. John could imagined it as spiralling staircases piercing through clouds made of glass, with towering chestnut bookcases. The brilliance, tangible in the atmosphere, was so overwhelming that even the greatest minds would’ve sunk down on their knees. The consulting detective baffled, annoyed and solved. He was loathed, was admired and was dreaded. People either contemplated his intelligence that forgave his faults or despised his arrogance and apparent lack of humanity. John had instantly fallen in the former category and never faltered.

   It was true to say that John was Sherlock’s only friend. He showed his softer side with people he trusted, but even then the vulnerability was always hidden under layers of secrets. While people called him a sociopath, an obsidian-hearted detective who would eventually be the murderer they’d be chasing after and conceited freak, John was one of the rare people to see his humanity. Sherlock could care, although his way of caring was to supply implied advices in a clipped tone that drove people on the edge. Sherlock could worry, even if his countenance didn’t change in the slightest bit. Sherlock could panic, yet he always appeared in control as he skilfully manipulated the scattered pieces to put them back in place. Sherlock was human, for his seemingly lack of sentiments was the exact reason he was human: afraid of being left alone and hardened by crude and snarky comments during his childhood. What humanity there had been before was stashed away to cope with mankind’s malice.

   John had faithfully been at his side during every case he had accepted. When he could, he brought up points he thought important, but he normally was Sherlock’s outer eye and, in some other way though he didn’t need it, the person reminding him how brilliant he was. Some might call the pair unlikely, but they completed each other perfectly, one tending to human matters while the other’s expertise revolved around rationality. They found solace in each other, one chasing a doctor’s painful memories and the other being a detective’s solid anchor in his turmoil. One published online the crimes the other had solved earlier with mind blowing deductions.

   So when he wasn’t around, the world felt strangely hollow, as if someone had literally carved the heart out of John’s chest. It was rare that John distanced himself, mainly because he was afraid Sherlock might forget to eat and collapse in exhaustion. Or rather, he couldn’t bear being away from his flustering albeit mesmerising presence, from his aura bright with intelligence yet tainted with mystery, and from the thrill. It had become a habit to make him tea, to replenish the fridge (or the latter would forget to do it and work until he fainted with severe malnutrition), to inform him when he was being rude, and even to respond calmly to one of his recurring moods: boredom. In overall, it had become more than a simple friendship. It was an indestructible bond, an unspoken oath of trust and loyalty, a pledge to always be present for the other.

_Nobody could be that clever._

_You could._

   What exactly happened the day when Sherlock died thus remained a blur but also a memory graved on his mind for ever. He remembered rushing out of St. Bart’s, despicable words spilling from his mouth intended to describe his flatmate when he had refused to come and check over Mrs Hudson, who had – apparently – got shot. It was only when he reached Baker Street, to find a perfectly fine albeit worried Mrs Hudson, that it dawned upon him. Calling a cab, he had urged the driver to rival with professional car racers in terms of speed to get to St. Bart’s, where he had left his friend probably in Moriarty’s claws. Phone in hand, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of some billowing coat of dark flop of curls, he had then looked up in the sky in the hope of a sign. There he was. Standing perfectly still on the hospital’s rooftop, phone in hand, one hand outstretched as if he could grasp John’s raised one.

_Keep your eyes fixed on me!_

   The bloody phone call tore his heart in shreds. Sherlock was so keen on saying he was a fake, that it had been his invention all along, and John didn’t understand why he was uttering such rubbish. John, of all people, knew the truth behind the web of lies Moriarty had carefully spun around Sherlock. The consulting detective would never be able to convince John that he wasn’t as clever as he looked. And it hurt to hear those words coming from his mouth. He heard them frequently because of Donovan and witnessed countless times her glares and her sneers, but hearing them in his deep, silky voice made it sound even worse. He kept protesting, racking his mind on finding a reason to tell Sherlock so he wouldn’t jump. Yet he had blankly stared ahead, not understanding his motives, and the last words pierced his heart.

_Please, will you do this for me? This phone call, it’s... it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note._

_Leave a not when?_

_Goodbye, John._

   He had tossed the phone aside, listening to it cracking on the cement similarly to how his neck would in a few seconds. He had raised his arms beside him, as if ready to soar in the horizon. He didn’t even look down as his feet stood on the edge, ready to meet nothingness. Then he had pitched forwards, and for one brilliant moment, he was flying. Then he was falling freely, his coat soaring in the wind as he rapidly met the ground.

   _SHERLOCK!_

   John had watched, aghast. It was true that the consulting detective wasn’t an angel, but it didn’t ease the fact that it had looked like he was falling from the sky. Then... he didn’t want to think about it. He had been hit by a careless bicycle and he had approached Sherlock. There had been blood seeping out and spreading on the pavement, slithering through the asphalt cracks. The little crowd that had gathered around him was whispering in distress, and since they had been right next to St. Bart’s, calling an ambulance had been unnecessary; nurses had already come out rushing to the b– to his fallen friend. Someone had been kneeling beside the detective, shaking him slightly as it might bring him back. John had known no one could’ve survived the fall, mostly because his neck had snapped in two, but he had clung onto the tiny hope that the truth sometimes wasn’t what it seemed.

_Let me... Let me see him. He’s my friend. He’s my friend._

  They hadn’t let him see. The people had stood on their ground and he had to push them away. He had managed to break through the barrier they had formed around them to take his pulse, only to find none, and then the nurses had wheeled the b– Sherlock away on a gurney, blood dripping from the open wounds. He had felt numb then. Sherlock had maintained the flame alive, but now with his demise it was huffed out by a powerful gale. It left a cold, gaping hole in his heart, where the wind blew and tore everything apart. He didn’t remember how he returned to 221B. He didn’t remember the following days after his death, before the funerals. He did remember, however, how dull the world seemed without him. He did remember staring down at his grave, black and smooth with an inscription that made his heart shatter in bold capital letters. He did remember whispering to the wind, whispering to the clouds, whispering to him, a supplication.

_Please, there’s just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this..._

   For there was something about him, something that made him unique and extraordinary John’s eyes, something John couldn’t live without: he was magnificent.

   He was Sherlock.


End file.
